30 April 2018

It's a long drive, from anywhere, to the Mull of Galloway. By the time I finish my two-week placement as a volunteer with the RSPB I have clocked up nearly 1,000 miles, but then there aren't (many) gannets in Harpenden.....

Trouble is, when I arrive there is, quite literally, virtually nothing to see....

Which is why, I assume, they put a lighthouse here, complete with foghorn, though this was last operated in anger by the resident Lighthouse Keepers of the Northern Lighthouse Board back in November 1987.

Fortunately, following the acquisition of land and buildings at the Mull of Galloway by the Mull of Galloway Trust in 2013, and with the help of local retired engineer Steve Burns, the three Kelvin K2 diesel engines and associated compressed air system have now been restored and every Sunday at one o'clock the glorious blast can once again be heard (providing, ironically, there's no fog!)

Sadly, this doesn't help me find the RSPB visitor centre, but happily a stonechat is on hand to assist me....

Then, the clouds lift, and a Force 8 gale blows the seas clear, so now I can see the Isle of Man.....

And the lighthouse.....

And some birds: kittiwakes brave the sea spray.....

While gannets skim the waves....

And herring gulls scan the water for anything to eat.....

The wind drops and the 80 metre cliffs support guillemots, razorbills and nesting shag.....

While on the water below courting couples razor-bill and coo.....

Chaperoned by a synchronised pair of ravens....

It is early in the year, and the spring is late. The water is cold and food for the seabirds (sand eels, small fry) is still scarce, so nesting has not yet begun in earnest, though two and a half thousand pairs of gannets can be seen readying themselves six miles out on Big Scare, and the kittiwakes are collecting mud and grass to tread down into their creviced platforms.

In the patch of willows in standing water below the visitor centre passing warblers and the occasional chiff chaff can be seen....

And the still brown heathers are alive with meadow pipits....

And handsome masked wheatears, showing their smart backsides (from which they get their name - white rear - or arse if you prefer...) when they flit off.....

I see buzzards around, though one of them seems too large and powerful to be a buzzard as he disappears out over Luce Bay before I can get my binoculars.... Could that have been a sea eagle, I wonder? Inland, over the Forest of Galloway, I see another large bird of prey launch itself amongst the firs. Again, probably a buzzard, but a very large, heavy one if so. But I definitely see red kite there..... So beautiful.....

It's not just about the birds, however. Apart from the presence of roe deer on the reserve, standing out against the sea....

Or leaping, perfectly camouflaged (like the brown hare also found here), up the hill....

There is a lot going on. The RSPB is about conservation. Without suitable habitat there will be no birds. But without suitable habitat there won't be anything at all. So the RSPB is not just about birds - it is the largest nature conservation charity in the country, consistently delivering successful conservation, forging powerful new partnerships with other organisations and inspiring others to stand up and give nature the home it deserves.The RSPB is a charity, founded in 1889 and run by a council of volunteers.

The visitor centre at RSPB Mull of Galloway attracts some 20,000 visitors a year, and apart from welcoming people and informing them about what can be seen on the reserve (which is part of a much larger Site of Specific Scientific Interest and a Special Area of Conservation) the work here involves fund raising and encouraging membership of the organisation. Dave and Rob are engaged full time in this, and as a volunteer I am there to lend a hand as well.

A number of those I speak to, however, seem to equate the RSPB with the National Trust and English Heritage and speak of having been a member but not having used it that much, having visited the reserves near their home, and therefore having exhausted the value of membership.

This is an understandable argument, but it is a mistaken one. The point of the RSPB is not that it gives you free parking and free entrance to a wealth of attractions preserved in aspic. I think (and this is my personal view) that the point of the RSPB is that without this organisation (and its partners) there soon won't be the richness and variety of natural life that is in itself a reward, part of the wonder of living....

I enjoy visiting ancient buildings and interesting homes, but to enter a stately doll's house where the family have succumbed to the rigours of death duties is to engage a sense of social history and to shed a tear in the empty room where Timmy's trunk lies, next to the rocking horse, left behind when he went to war. You look at a large brown portrait of a fat man in a waistcoat, and perhaps of a woman held up by whalebone.... and you pass on, careful not to disturb the teasel on the chaise longue...

With the RSPB your membership is different. You do get goodies for joining, and a regular magazine, but the essential thing is that 90% of your contribution goes to work with the land, conserving the habitat of the flora, fauna and avifauna that makes life really worth living.

Of course you can also volunteer... I have just been honoured with a silver swift and certificate in recognition of 5 years' volunteering with the RSPB. In this time I have probed peat in Sutherland, counted geese at dawn on Islay, guarded ospreys overnight in the Cairngorms, cleaned up tern nesting sites on Coquet Island, cleared reedbeds in Norfolk, watched for bitterns and marsh harriers in Lincolnshire, litter swept in Cumbria, kept an eye on Peregrines at Symonds Yat and cleaned out sheep pens in Wales..... And everywhere I've made new friends and learned more and more about birds and their world.

There are lots of ways to get involved and give nature a home with the RSPB.

And now, after a long day on the Reserve, it's time to head back to Drummore for the evening. There's a shop, here, and three pubs. One of them, The Queens Head (sic) claims to be Scotland's southernmost hotel, which gives a new slant on the meaning of going south... A sign in the window says "HOT BEER, LOUSY FOOD, BAD SERVICE..... WELCOME, HAVE A NICE DAY." Irony is a strong point in the locality.

Opposite is the King's Hall. At least this has an apostrophe....

But down the road, on Shore Street, there's The Ship Inn, where Bill & Jennifer will look after you (if they haven't gone to bed) and even magic up a lobster (if the wind is in the right direction....)

And then, after a wee dram, there's time for a wander by the harbour at sunset....

Before dodging the traffic and the crowds to get back home to Stair Street, the main thoroughfare to Stranraer...

10 April 2018

S smiles to himself. He is a free man, not a number. He ushers his daughter out of his modern suburban house, pulls the door to, and helps her into his car. Together they have a drink and a pizza in the city centre, smiling as the waiter takes their photo. Then as they stroll away a fog overcomes him. He struggles to breathe, as if he is being smothered by a great balloon...... He collapses, on a bench.....

When he regains consciousness he is disorientated. His head hurts. His mouth is dry. He pulls himself up to raise the blinds and looks out of the window.....

He is confused. The phone on the side table rings. S lifts the receiver. Good morning to you. A suave, cultivated voice speaks. I hope you slept well? Come and join me for breakfast. Number 2. The Green Dome.

Of course, but when a man knows as much as you do a double check does no harm..... A few details may have been missed.....

I wake in the village. The sun is up; the tide is out. In my head I hear the voice of Patrick McGoohan. I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered..... My life is my own.

Is it?

Thanks to my younger brother, Tim, I have just re watched all seventeen episodes of The Prisoner. I first saw it fresh in the sixties, when it was a sensation. Ever since then the clipped tones and sharp image of McGoohan have been in my head. Every so often I have run across sands and shouted, I am not a number: I am a free man!

And I have gloriously vindicated the right of the individual to be individual. I used to wear striped socks at school, for example.... I was Unmutual....And I am surely not alone in this?

Patrick McGoohan first visited Portmeirion, an Italianate village in North Wales designed and built by architect Clough Williams-Ellis, in 1960 to film an episode of Danger Man. So when he 'retired' from that series and wanted to produce something different he returned here to be imprisoned by unknown authorities.

The series was highly successful, with over eleven million viewers for most of the first showings, but it perplexed many and the final episode was not what everyone wanted. McGoohan's character, Number 6, is told that he is free to go, having survived a bewildering succession of examinations and tests.

The ultimate revelation, however, is that we are prisoners of ourselves, which McGoohan defines as: about the most evil human essence.

The central theme of The Prisoner is, in McGoohan's words, the freedom of the individual. I want to yell back, 'That's our right. The loss of one's own individuality is a nightmare.' But there is a more concrete, more sinister, essence.....What do you do with an ex- secret agent?

The Prisoner still has a large following. From April 20th to 22nd this year The Prisoner Appreciation Society (http://www.sixofone.co/)will be holding PortmeiriCon 2018 celebrating 50+ years of The Prisoner. On June 23rd at Elstree Studios, Borehamwood, The Unmutual Website (& Quoit Media Limited) will be presenting NOT A NUMBER, A Patrick McGoohan Retrospective..... (see http://www.theunmutual.co.uk/)

If you haven't ever seen it, The Prisoner might now seem a curiosity. It isn't perfect, for sure, and some of the costumes and hairstyles, special effects and sets are very sixties, but despite these and other drawbacks it still intrigues and surprises. McGoohan himself is an impressive presence and many of the supporting actors keep up with him, though Leo McKern temporarily broke down with the strain. It was ground-breaking in many ways; it challenged the TV industry and the viewing public; it was unusual in that its 'hero' kept failing to get away and that there was no arch villain to blame it all on in the end....

And it was worryingly prescient. Whose side are you on? How many times have you been captured on CCTV today? Are you a number? Or a free person?

I am a privileged visitor at a Catholic boarding school. On one side of the corridor there are evenly spaced wooden doors, set into the block stone walls with ogival arches over each frame. On the other side there is a cloistered square, monastic in architecture. It is by no means a prison, though to an imaginative child some of its features might seem just a little enclosing.....A framed article mounted on the corridor wall catches my eye. The heading is: Patrick McGoohan, 19th March 1928 - 13th January 2009, Old Ratcliffian 1940 - 1944, Actor.

Apparently he excelled at maths and boxing.....

Patrick McGoohan was born in Queens, New York City, but was brought up in Ireland and then London. With the blitz came evacuation to Loughborough, and school at Ratcliffe College. In twenty years he was Danger Man, and then, 86 episodes later, the highest paid TV actor in the country, he resigned..... And he became The Prisoner.....

After the last episode of The Prisoner (Fall Out) aired on February 2nd 1968 there was such an outcry that McGoohan had to escape with his family to a remote place in Wales until the furore had died down. He subsequently moved to Switzerland, and then to California. In the 70's he wrote, directed and appeared in episodes of Columbo, and in 1995 played Edward I in Braveheart. On January 13th 2009, aged eighty, he died.....

Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in timeIt's easyAll you need is loveAll you need is loveBe seeing you!

1 April 2018

Angry Young Man John Osborne never stayed in the Grand Hotel Amrâth Amsterdam as, at the time of his death in 1994, it was the headquarters of the city's public transport company (GVB). It had been created just before the First World War as the Scheepvaarthuis (Dutch for House of Shipping), the joint head office for six shipping companies. Architect Jo Van der Mey combined Art Nouveau with contemporary Dutch and nautical ideas to form the key work of the Amsterdam School.

In The Hotel in Amsterdam, six friends from London, whose lives and work are overshadowed by K.L., a demanding film producer, flee the country for a weekend to escape his influence. In a hotel in Amsterdam, the uneasy equilibrium that has existed between them begins to unravel as the alcohol starts to flow. John Osborne's account of these relationships won the Evening Standard Best Play of the Year Award in 1968.

The play was revived at the Donmar Warehouse starring Tom Hollander (a happily coincidental name) in September 2003, but is rarely performed these days, though it is not without current relevance. They are escaping the clutches of K.L, who is described as, the biggest, most poisonous, voracious, Machiavellian dinosaur in the movies.... And we all know what that means...... Indeed, I think we do, Mr Weinstein?

In the Grand Hotel Amrâth we are not escaping anyone. We have come to see old friends, as well as Rembrandt, Van Gogh et al. We have come to revive ourselves with the delights of foreign travel, while we still can. The hotel itself is an extraordinary building and we marvel at the way architect Ray Kentie and his team of artists renovated the office building. It took a year and a half of demolition and clearance, starting in 2003, and then a further two and half to complete the restoration.

With a glance over my shoulder at Osborne, however, we feel just a little oppressed by the city, and by the hotel. It is shadowy, and the heavy woods and thick wallpapers dull our spirits. The irony is that, as tourists, we are ever trying to escape ourselves. Amanda and I first visited the Rembrandthuis over twenty years ago, and were welcomed in through the front door into a relatively quiet, dark seventeenth century town house. It seemed as if the owner had just stepped out for a stroll, and we made ourselves at home in anticipation of his return. Now you enter through a glass, steel and concrete atrium, and jostle with hundreds of others, all intently glued to audio guides. There were 265,000 such visitors last year and I am told that they anticipate 300,000 this year.

The Van Gogh museum only takes online bookings. There are queues for the Rijksmuseum. The Red Light district is now swamped by tour groups. There's hardly a sailor in sight. No chance of privacy.....

What can we do? We are tourists too.

We escape. Again. To Haarlem. Seventeen minutes on a train from Amsterdam Centraal, and a totally different atmosphere. The Grote Kerk, dedicated to St Bavo, is an oasis of peace, despite the monumental organ once deftly played by the ten-year-old Mozart.

We pay our respects to Frans Hals, though the Laughing Cavalier is resting in the Groot Heiligland, the Alms House for old men where he ended his days, in anticipation of celebrations later in the day.....

A fact endorsed by excited locals, who seem to be bursting pink and turquoise balloons in our honour....

The pedestrian streets are quiet, their quaint, wonky houses immaculate (apart from the occasional reference to South Park).....

And the windmill waves at us across the Grebe-infested river.

Back in Amsterdam we have a beer at Café Papeneiland, a bruine kroeg from 1642,

then find an old fashioned restaurant in Jordaan and eat stamppot andijvie met lamsbout, which is mighty fine. After this we have a de Koninck and oude genever at the Café Karpershoek before retiring to the Amrâth, feeling full, and a little wobbly, and not quite so jaded.

We look back. But not in anger. I met John Osborne in Rome once, not that long before he died. The man who changed British theatre was no longer an angry young man. He was more an avuncular old boy with the husky Fulham tones of the late John Hurt playing Jeffrey Barnard. I asked him whether he ever regretted writing Look Back in Anger? He smiled, perhaps at my naivety. It pays the rent, he said,with a chuckle.

I didn't ask him about The Hotel in Amsterdam.....

In actual fact, I look back, whenever I look back, with great affection, whether to Amsterdam or not...... Perhaps looking forward is not so easy nowadays?